


Let them fall, they're just tears

by Onlythegodsarereal



Series: If third's the charm, fourth's the magic [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 3 times + 1, Canonical Character Death, Enjolras & Jean Prouvaire Friendship, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras/Grantaire - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Combeferre/Courfeyrac, Minor Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire, Pining Enjolras, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, a lot of Louison, and a lot of my headcanon for her, and they're confusing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-09 01:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14706179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onlythegodsarereal/pseuds/Onlythegodsarereal
Summary: Enjolras nodded, he had noticed it too. Grantaire had been tense and nervous since he had entered the room and it couldn’t all be blamed on the wound. No, when Grantaire had been alone with the young waitress he was more relaxed, pained of course, but almost serene. So Enjolras had to draw the only possible conclusion: the problem was him. Just having to think about that again made another stream of tears fall from the young leader's eyes, and he covered his face with his hand in a desperate attempt to hide from Jehan.Or three times Enjolras cried because of Grantaire and one time he smiled beacuse of him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fanfiction and I'm a little nervous to post it, I hope you'll like it (and I also hope it'll make sense). I'm not a native english speaker so i have and incredible beta who helped me through all this process, she's lawrofsakaar, she's great. I'll post every saturday. Let me know what you think about it, enjoy the ride!

1.  
Enjolras was restless. It happened sometimes. There were voices in his head that would remind him of the fact that there still was so much to do, so much to accomplish and he simply couldn’t sleep. So, most of those nights he would get up and try to get something done.

It was one of those nights. He reached for the clock on his nightstand: it was ten past five. Enjolras mulled his options over and decided that the best course of action was to go to the Musain and work a little. He liked working at the Musain. The place reminded him of his friends, of the Société and their cause, and it was so easy working there, the words would just fly into his mind. So, it was decided. Enjolras dressed quickly and left in the early morning.

Outside it was still dark but the streets of Paris were already buzzing with life: cafés and bakeries were opening, workers were going to their factories, beggars were searching for a place to rest from the cold of the last days of winter. The Musain wasn’t very far from his lodgings. They weren’t as close as Grantaire’s were but it didn’t take more than fifteen minutes.

When he arrived, he searched for the backdoor’s spare key that Louison gave him when they first started using the Musain for their meetings, but while he was engaged in his task, he heard voices coming from inside. He stilled. He was sure Louison ’s family would be still sleeping at such an hour; Louison was probably about to wake up to open the café, which was one of the reasons why Enjolras liked to work at the Musain. The young woman used to hum bright happy songs while she worked that surprisingly helped Enjolras to focus, but it was still a little too early even for her, and no one else besides him used the backroom as a place of work. He couldn’t be totally certain of course, but still it sounded strange. He tried to listen to the voices.

And then one of the people in the room grunted.

“Do you want to wake all my family?” Hissed a woman who could be no one else but Louison.  
“My apologies but you’ll have to agree with me that I’m not in a position in which one is usually quiet,” came the breathless response of Grantaire.

It couldn’t be, thought Enjolras in disbelief.

He knew that Louison and Grantaire had a strange friendship based mostly on the fact that the woman would overlook the drunk and loud ramblings of the man even when they broke the peace of the café and he would close an eye on Louise watering his wine when she thought he had had enough. Since the two of them weren’t particularly close, if Enjolras had to think of someone who Louison could have been interested in among their friends he would have probably said Prouvaire or Feuilly, Combeferre maybe, surely not Grantaire. Not that he didn’t understand the artist’s charms. He had seen him dance after all, as Louison did, and he could be charming in that loud way of his when he talked about gods and fairies and people too idealized to be real. But Louise had never been the type to get intrigued by this kind of character, she loved quiet, peace, and reflection.

So, he became curious.

Enjolras tried to stay out of the romantic relationships of his friends, they were trivial and not at all necessary for the cause. Of course, he cared for the happiness of his friends, but usually an invitation to drink some wine in their company cured any amorous misadventure, he didn’t need to know the specifics. But Louison was different, or maybe Grantaire was, said a little voice in his head which was weirdly similar to Courfeyrac’s. Anyway, he was curious and there was nothing wrong with that since everyone of his friends used to put their noses in each other's business. He didn’t want to spy on them, just confirm his assumptions. He would take a look and leave them alone.

Enjolras knew there was a window that faced the street that had a broken blind which permitted him to see into the room without being seen from those inside. Usually during their meetings Bahorel would sit in front of the window and block the view, but Enjolras was pretty sure the two in the room hadn’t paid much attention to that little detail. He moved in front of the window and peered in: Louison was kneeling in front of Grantaire who was seated on a chair in the center of the room, a candle softly illuminating him, emphasizing the way in which the cynic was biting his lips with his eyes closed, his hands clenched in fists along his sides and an expression of pure… pain?

Enjolras was confused.

“Fuck… " grunted Grantaire biting his bottom lip. "And Bahorel said you were good at this.”

Their voices came muffled but still clear through the glass of the window and Enjolras could even hear the light snort emitted by the young woman.

“Bahorel should have kept his damn mouth shut,” she muttered. She was doing something with her hands in the proximity of Grantaire’s middle, but the light wasn’t enough for Enjolras to see clearly.

“Are you angry with me, Louise?” Asked the artist with a half-amused smile.

“And here I thought I was the attentive one! Yes, I’m angry with you,” answered the young woman.

“Does it have anything to do with the fact that I appeared at your door in the middle of the night covered in blood?”

Something clicked in Enjolras mind: this was not a romantic encounter.

He remembered when Bahorel had proposed the Musain for their meetings, he had said that he knew the owners and one of the waiters patched him up after some of his fights sometimes. He had heard Louise talking with Combeferre and Joly of their course of study more than once. He had even seen her sewing a cut on Bossuet ’s brow after a fight had erupted just outside the Musain.

Sex had nothing to do with what was happening in the backroom in that moment: Louise was just helping Grantaire with some kind of bruise or wound and she didn’t seem very happy about it.

The woman still had to answer the artist’s question but didn’t seem very inclined to do so, and the cynic, who couldn’t bear long silences in normal situations, pressed for a reply.

“You know that you could have just sent me away, right?”

Louise snorted again.

“Yes, of course. And let you bleed to death in your flat only to have to explain that to Jehan and Musichetta in the morning, no thanks.”

“Always nice knowing where your affections are.”

“Oh, stop it, R. You knew I would have helped you if you asked, Jehan or no Jehan, that’s why you came. So, don’t play the poor stray pup with me please,” said Louise harshly while standing up to hold a hand to the flame of the candle, probably to disinfect the needle.

“I don’t understand why you’re angry with me then,” insisted a puzzled Grantaire.

“Because… imagine what would have happened if my father had answered instead of me. They probably wouldn’t let me serve here anymore, probably wouldn’t even let me out of my room. It was one thing to help Bahorel in plain daylight under my sister’s supervision. This is another thing,” she said gesticulating to indicate the whole room.

“It’s not like anyone would believe that the pure and sweet Louise fell in bed with someone like me,” commented Grantaire. Though he grinned in his usual wary manner, Enjolras felt that there was something out of place in his voice, something sad.

“First of all, if you’re trying to flatter me it’s not working, second stop listening to what Irma says. She’s a pretentious attention seeker, and that’s from my sister which means a lot.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s wrong.”

“Listen, R, I’m here to fix your body not your self-esteem, for that I am of no use.”

She brought a hand to the man’s shoulder and in the light of the candle Enjolras saw her soft smile which remained hidden from Grantaire.

“I’m going to bring that absinthe I promised you, getting stitches in the abdomen is always a bit painful.”

“Free absinthe? I should lose a fight more often then.”

“You’ll have the cheap one. I can’t risk having you here every even night,” she retorted, but her tone was lighter and Grantaire relaxed in his seat while the woman walked out the door.

But when Enjolras observed the face of the man contorting in pain, which he had probably tried to hide while Louison had been in the room, he made a decision. He turned back to the door and opened it letting himself in. Grantaire straightened up immediately and coaxed his expression into one that hid his suffering.

“Isn’t it a bit early for planning the revolution?” Asked the cynic with his usual sarcasm.

Enjolras didn’t give him the satisfaction of rolling his eyes, he just stared at him looking for the signs of the fight: the bruises, on his face and bare forearm, the scratches on his hands and jaw and the wound on his right side where the man was pressing a white cloth that was slowly becoming stained with red.

“You should see my opponent,” said Grantaire squirming under Enjolras’ inspection.

“I have no interest in him.”

“But you have in me?” Asked Grantaire with a hint of hope in his voice. Before Enjolras could answer that, yes, he was his friend so of course he was interested in his well-being, Louison came back in the room with the bottle of liquor in one hand.

“Enjolras," she greeted him not at all surprised. "Is it one of those nights?”

“One of those mornings I’d say,” he answered with a small smile.

“I’m actually quite glad you arrived, I think our Grantaire will need some help with the pain,” she said giving the bottle to the artist with a look of warning.

“Always glad to be useful.”

“Good. Come here and take R’s hand then, and be prepared for a great deal of squeezing.”

“Apollo’s not going to hold my hand.” Grantaire’s voice verged on horrified. Enjolras would never have admitted it, but he felt a little hurt by the tone of the man’s voice.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, R, really, Jehan holds Bahorel’s hand all the time. Now, Enjolras come here and make yourself useful.” Louise’s voice was final, and Enjolras took a chair from a table nearby and positioned himself near Grantaire and offered his hand. The artist stared at the offending limb with ill-concealed terror before grasping it with unsure eyes. The leader smiled at him, but the cynic’s gaze was fixed on the light of the candle completely ignoring the other man.

“Are you ready?” Asked Louise positioning the needle. Grantaire took a sip from the bottle.

“Ready as I can get,” he answered as Louise started working. Immediately Enjolras felt the man’s hand tighten its grip on his own.

“Distract him,” ordered Louise without looking up from her work.

“What?” Asked the two men at the same time. The woman rolled her eyes.

“I’m talking to Enjolras. Distract R, talk to him about something. Not politics maybe. I want him distracted not agitated.”

Grantaire grunted, and Enjolras couldn’t tell if it was from the pain or the fact he didn’t believe Enjolras capable of not talking of politics.

“What happened to you?” He asked genuinely curious.

“Illegal boxing match in a café on the other side of the Seine,” answered the artist between hisses of pain.

“Do you engage often in these activities?” Inquired the other surprised.

“Only when Bossuet needs money: he’ll place his bet and I’ll make sure it’ll be the winning one, unfortunately it can’t always be on me winning or it’ll become suspicious after a while.”

“And how did you gain that?” Asked the other glaring at the wound which Louise was occupied sewing.

“My opponent didn’t play fair.”

“But he didn’t say anything lest Bossuet lose his money. It’s a miracle this hadn’t become infected yet when you arrived,” commented Louise more than a little annoyed.

“I thought you needed to focus on your work,” retorted Grantaire giving the woman a nasty look which she completely ignored.

“Louise’s right," said Enjolras and she snorted but remained silent. "You should be more careful. Why didn’t you go with Bossuet to Joly’s? He’s closer to the Seine.”

“Joly disapproves of my way of paying rent. I didn’t want to upset him or cause a fight between him and Bossuet and Musichetta either.”

“You should have gone to Combeferre’s then, he surely wouldn’t have minded, he usually gets up really early anyway. To avoid causing our Louise any problems that she could have with her family. That I imagine she could have, at least,” he hurried to add the last part to avoid raising any suspicions about his previous eavesdropping.

“I’ll remember,” answered Grantaire after a long silence filled only by his gulp of the absinthe.

“Combeferre’s lodgings are in the same building as mine,” added Enjolras without a real reason. He just thought it was important somehow.

“Yes, I know,” said Grantaire in such a low tone Enjolras almost didn’t hear it.

“You do?”

“Courfeyrac must have mentioned it sometime.”

“All right, I’m done,” announced Louison standing up from her kneeling position on the floor. Grantaire freed his hand from his grip, Enjolras hadn’t realized how tight it had become until it was gone.

“Thank you, Louise, I really owe you one,” said Grantaire with a tired smile. As he moved to get up, Louise’s hand on his shoulder blocked him.

“Don’t.”

“Louise, I’m really tired and my rooms are five minutes from here, I won’t faint, I promise.”

“Between the pain, the blood loss and the alcohol I really doubt you’ll ever arrive to your rooms without some help.”

“No way in hell I’m sleeping on this floor tonight,” protested Grantaire passing a hand through his unkempt hair.

“I’ll help you,” offered Enjolras easily just to be rewarded with an incredulous look from the artist.

“Thank you, Enjolras, that would be perfect,” said Louise while starting to pack her needle and the sewing thread.

“I don’t want to impose,” said Grantaire keeping his eyes fixed on something on the floor.

“You won’t. I came here because I couldn’t sleep not because I have anything important to do.”

“I thought you always have something important to do,” retorted the artist with a grin.

“The Future can wait while I help a friend.”

At those words Grantaire raised his gaze to Enjolras as an answer formed on his tongue but in that moment Louison pushed the both of them out of the door.

“I have serious work to do now,” she said while helping R to put his arm around Enjolras’ shoulder,which, with the leader being slightly taller, proved a difficult job.

“R, sleep well," she called out as the pair stumbled along.

They walked in relative silence, interrupted only by Grantaire’s sighs or grunts of pain. Enjolras was keenly aware of every part of his body that touched the artist’s and tried his best not to blush when Grantaire’s hand brushed his neck. Enjolras wasn’t used to physical contact, his parents hadn’t been the warmest ones and though he loved his friends dearly, he didn’t express that sentiment physically.

He didn’t express that sentiment at all Grantaire would have said had the man at his side been able to hear his thoughts. He glanced at him, a question on his mind, but Grantaire was too focused on trying not to move his left side too much and not looking at the other and Enjolras’ question died in his mouth.

Fortunately, for the both of them, the walk to the man’s lodgings was quite short. The tricky part was the stairs, but they managed them without too much fuss on Grantaire’s part.

Once in his room the cynic collapsed on a chair, his brow sweaty and his breathing rushed.

Enjolras closed the door behind them and then stopped to look at the room around him. He had never been in Grantaire’s lodgings and they weren’t quite as he had imagined, and, at the same time, not at all surprising: they were spacious but not in a very good shape. The paint on the wall was uneven and one of the windows was broken. Canvases, half-finished paintings and bottles, books and clothes were all spread everywhere-- on the floor, on the single table near the not-broken window, and on both of the two chairs, but still it seemed there had been an attempt to make sense of all the chaos. There was an ordered pile of book near what Enjolras thought was the bedroom’s door and all the empty bottle had been reunited near the entrance. There were a dozen canvases neatly stocked in a pile and covered with an old French flag, not the monarchic one, but the red, white and blue one.

“You see? I’m patriotic too,” the artist whispered in what had probably been intended as a joke that was ruined by his pained tone.

“You should go to sleep, Grantaire. You aren’t even able to be sarcastic anymore,” said Enjolras with a light smile on his face. It was a fascinating aspect of Grantaire’s, the ability to make jokes even in the less opportune moments, irritating sometimes, but fascinating nonetheless.

“And without my sarcasm I am of no use,” said the other man with half a grin.

“I wasn’t saying that, of course,” protested the leader who was offended by the assumption.

“Of course. You despise my sarcasm.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to protest yet again, but Grantaire beat him changing the subject.

“I should put Joly’s ointment on the bruise or tomorrow I won’t be able to move,” Grantaire groaned trying to stand up and his face contorted in pain.

“Sit down. I’ll do it for you,” commanded Enjolras firmly. “Tell me where it is.”

Grantaire observed him curiously for a moment before answering.

“The cabinet in the kitchen, second door on the right.”

Enjolras nodded and followed the man’s instruction.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” commented Grantaire while the other was intently looking in the little chaotic cabinet.

“Do what?” The leader asked without really thinking. He had to put down the second bottle of ink and was more interested in asking why Grantaire kept ink in the same cabinet as salt and medicine than to listen to his pained mumbling.

“Care for me. You did your duty, you took me home. It’s not like Louise’s going to inquire if you put me to bed.”

Enjolras snorted.

“Louise is rarely interested in what happens once we’re in our lodgings, unless it concerns the cause or our studies.”

“You should go back to her, I bet she’s waiting for you,” continued Grantaire as Enjolras finally found a bottle of ointment with a label scribbled in Joly’s barely legible writing.

“I highly doubt that. Jehan has probably arrived at the Musain by now, they’ll all be engaged in some of their whispered talks,” said Enjolras nearing the chair Grantaire was slumped in.

“Are you jealous of their relationship?”

“Why should I be? They’re kindred souls. There’s a lot to admire in their relationship: a true alliance between men and women, a brother and a sister of the cause.”

Grantaire grunted and said nothing, but then his eyes went wide as saucers when Enjolras kneeled in front of him in one fluid movement.

“What are you doing?” He asked horrified.

“Helping you put the ointment on the bruise,” answered Enjolras confused by Grantaire’s reaction.

“You are… you shouldn’t… No! Get up Enjolras,” he stuttered urging the other man to get up with a hand on his elbow. “Get up now! And go to your Marianne or something like that!”

Enjolras got up but didn’t move from his spot and looked at Grantaire surprised and even more confused than before.

“What are you talking about?”

“You and Louise! Everybody knows!” The artist’s voice was still pained and suffering, but there was something else now, something out of place, like fear and guilt, and his expression was hard, almost cruel.

“Grantaire, this is insane, you’re acting insane and I don’t…”

“The virtuous Daphne for the incorruptible Apollo! The girl who married the People for the man who gave himself to Patria, isn’t it fitting?”

Enjolras sighed heavily and placed the bottle of ointment on the table.

“Grantaire, you must know that what you’re saying isn’t the truth.”

“Oh yes of course! How could it be! Only suggesting that our lovely Louison has womanly feelings would be a horrible crime and to insinuate that you, oh mighty Apollo, could feel lust or any emotion like a mere mortal…”

“Stop placing me on an nonexistent Olympus, I’m no god nor do I aspire to become one,” Protested Enjolras stomping a foot on the ground exasperated. That man was truly impossible, refusing help from a friend and insulting him and poor Louison who had been so kind to him. But Grantaire hadn’t finished quite yet, his eyes gleamed with a cold light before his body shook with an empty laugh.

“Why should I stop? Is it because it reminds you that you’re of the same kind as the ones who are so cruel to your precious oppressed?”

At those words Enjolras recoiled as if Grantaire had slapped him and took a step back.

“Grantaire, you’re drunk and tired and in pain, you obviously don’t mean what you’re saying. You need to rest,” he spoke in what he hoped was a calm and soothing voice.

“That’s your problem, Apollo," sighed the cynic passing a hand on his face. "You’ll always think that men and women, at the bottom of their hearts, are creature worth saving, but we’re nothing but mice trying to die with a full belly and have some good fucks here and there. And I have no use of your foolish optimism in my rooms.”

Enjolras was about to protest but then changed his mind. He knew it was useless to argue with Grantaire when he was in such a mood. Instead he nodded and said icily: “Well then.”

He brushed his coat and went to the door, but before crossing the threshold, he turned back to Grantaire who was watching him with something different, sadness maybe or disgust, in his eyes and added in a warmer tone: “Sleep well, R.”

Then closed the door behind him.

 

By then the sun had risen completely on the city of Paris. Enjolras went straight to the Musain. He opened the backdoor and sat on the chair farthest away from the bottle of absinthe that was still there from early that morning, and he started crying.

Not even a minute had past when the door to the main room opened and Louise sauntered inside whistling.

“Enjolras, you’re back, how’s R?“ She asked in a cheerful tone and then stopped abruptly when she saw his face: ”Oh dear.”

“It’s all right Louise, really,” he tried to reassure her.

“What do you say about some breakfast? I bet you haven’t had anything to eat yet.”

She was right so he didn’t protest and the young woman disappeared once again to the main room, but when she came back she wasn’t alone. Behind her there was a young man, with fair red hair, dressed in bright colours with a white gardenia in his breast pocket. He was Jehan Prouvaire, the poet of their group.

He followed Louise as she placed a tray with some food and a cup of tea in front of Enjolras and sat next to him. The other man tried to dry his tears, but Jehan stopped his hand and shook his head.

“I thought you promised me breakfast, Louise,” protested Enjolras without real malice.

“Breakfast and a friend. Isn’t that better?” She asked with a small smile before she had to leave again when someone shouted her name in the other room.

“So what did Grantaire do?” Jehan inquired after a moment of silence.

“Why do you think Grantaire has anything to do with this?” Asked Enjolras trying to sound composed once more while picking at the food in front of him.

“Louise told me what happened earlier, she said R was in a sour mood which can’t mean anything good.”

Enjolras nodded, he had noticed it too. Grantaire had been tense and nervous since he had entered the room and it couldn’t all be blamed on the wound. No, when Grantaire had been alone with the young waitress he was more relaxed, pained of course, but almost serene. So Enjolras had to draw the only possible conclusion: the problem was him. Just having to think about that again made another stream of tears fall from the young leader's eyes, and he covered his face with his hand in a desperate attempt to hide from Jehan.

“It’s just… why?” He asked between sobs. “Why does he hate me so much? So much he can’t even bare to stay in the same room with me?”

“R doesn’t hate you,” commented the poet in a soothing tone rubbing Enjolras’ shoulders.

“Yes, he does! He never stops mocking me and laughing at me and sending me away.”

“It’s not like you’ve been a lot kinder to him, or am I wrong?”

“What am I supposed to do? He comes to our meetings just to drink, laugh at our cause and be disruptive. I treat him as I would treat anyone who acts the way he does. This is not a game we play for fun. The place for drinks and jokes is the first floor of the Corinthe not this backroom,” answered Enjolras heatedly, tears forgotten, the familiar feeling of the fervour for the revolution running in his veins.

“That I know,” said Jehan kindly leaning back in his seat and watching his friend with a thoughtful expression.

“It’s just… I’m not the only one passionate about our cause. I may be the one harsh with him, but only during our meetings, I really try to be his friend outside of them. He probably doesn’t care.”

“I don’t think that’s the problem.”

“He’s honestly one of the more fascinating and intelligent people I’ve ever met and he hates me and laughs at everything I’ve ever believed in,” concluded the leader looking sadly at his plate.

“Enjolras, believe me, Grantaire doesn’t hate you. It’s just that you’re very different people, with different ways to see the world, and, I think, to live in it as well. You have to learn how to meet halfway.”

“I don’t think R would care to make this effort,” commented Enjolras with an incredulous grunt.

“You may be surprised.”

“Grantaire doesn’t care about anything, not even about himself sometimes. I really doubt I’ll be anywhere near his more important concerns.”

Jehan smiled one of his little mysterious smiles and stole Enjolras’ buttered bread.

“We’ll see. Before today, I never thought I’d see you so upset over some argument with our Grantaire.”

“It’s just… he likes everyone, why not me? I want… I… I don’t know, it seems so unfair,” stuttered Enjolras blushing again and averting his eyes.

Jehan hummed and bit his bread thoughtfully.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my incredible beta lawrofsakaar. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

2.

The place was filled with people. Everyone was talking and laughing, someone was selling apples and bags of nuts and the entire group seemed happy and excited. Woman were wearing colourful dresses that fluttered in the breeze while men were taking their jacket off revealing more and more risque waistcoats.

Enjolras didn’t enjoy crowds. He could forget about his discomfort if he had a goal, something to focus on, but that day he was just there, waiting. He tried to spot his friends in the mass of people: Combeferre was with Courfeyrac and Jehan and they were talking animatedly about something Enjolras couldn’t hear, while Joly and Bossuet were searching for something to drink for Louise and Musichetta, who had joined them. The two girls were laughing near a little fountain and the first was blushing so hard she seemed sun-burnt. They had lost Bahorel sometime before, but Enjolras was confident he was going to be back with a black eye and some adventure to brag about later. Grantaire was probably getting prepared or something in the wide tent in the middle of the park.

Feuilly placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Is everything all right? You seem a little unfocused today.”

“Yes, it’s just that there’s a lot people. I didn’t expect this,” he answered shifting his gaze toward his friend.

“This competition is becoming quite popular. R’s not happy. He says that the more popular it becomes the more it gets filled with incompetents.”

“I didn’t know he had experience in stick fencing.”

“Our Grantaire has a lot of secrets. Louise told me you stumbled on one of the best kept a couple of months ago.”

“Not so well kept if Louise told you so easily,” commented Enjolras silently cursing the young woman.

Feuilly laughed.

“Louise doesn’t really care about what she’s supposed to keep secret and what she can tell when it concerns personal matters.”

“Has she told you anything else other than Grantaire’s misadventure?” Asked Enjolras preoccupied.

Feuilly thought about it for a moment.

“Not that I can remember. Is there something else I should know?”

Enjolras suppressed a sigh of relief.

“Nothing much,"  he lied. "He got stabbed but Louise patched him up.”

“Yes, that she said,” he didn’t seem really convinced, but Feuilly was a very good friend and didn’t press the matter.

They were interrupted in that moment by Courfeyrac and Musichetta who walked over with their arms linked and mischievous expressions, their gazes fixed on something in the crowd.

“Pontmercy arrived!” Exclaimed Courfeyrac excitedly. “Musichetta has to discover who the mysterious girl is that stole his innocent heart.”

Enjolras huffed incredulous while Feuilly smiled amused.

“There’s no way I don’t know her,” said the young woman convinced. “I know every grisette in Paris and if she’s not a grisette I’d have heard about her from some girl.”

“Don’t press the poor boy, he’s very reserved,” commented Jehan when he neared them.

“He’ll survive some questioning Jehan, no need to worry,” Courfeyrac reassured and left giggling with Musichetta at his heels.

“It’s a pity Pontmercy is more concerned with love affaires than with political ones, he’s got quite an active mind,” said Enjolras watching the two friends walk away.

“Active mind but with his loyalty in the wrong place,” added Combeferre who had followed Jehan.

“Loyalty can be moved,” said Feuilly with a smirk.

“By rightful arguments, yes, it can be moved but I would despise a man so easily convinced. Pontmercy has his ideals and he fights for them. I hope one day he’ll see the true and rightful road to the future and he’ll come fight with us.”

“I thought we said no political talks today!” Exclaimed Bossuet with an energetic pat on Enjolras’ shoulder which made the young man wince.

“You’re right, my friend, I forgot myself,” conceded Enjolras blushing lightly. He did say that he would try to distract his mind for the day and until that moment he had mostly succeeded thanks to his bright friends.

“Fortunately, I came in time to remind you of your duties, Enjolras. Now, let’s go take a seat, the match is going to start soon, the seats are quickly filling up and Joly and Louise can’t reserve ten of them all by themselves.”

“It’s the first year R let us come to see and I want the best places they can offer,” announced Jehan half running to the tribune.

Joly and Louise had held a dozen seats in the first row that were quickly being filled by the rest of les amis. The young waitress was eating an apple and laughed at the medical student’s cry of horror when he discovered it was one of those sold by the street vendors. Bossuet had just found out that his seat was broken and was searching for another one. Marius had escaped from Musichetta and Courfeyrac and had found support in Jehan who sat next to him. Bahorel had returned just in time, without a black eye but with a cravat that was quite different from the one he was wearing that morning. Enjolras sat between Feuilly and Combeferre and observed his friends with an affectionate smile. He probably would have never said it out loud, but it was nice to go out and have some fun with them without having to worry about firepower and ammunition and the wrongs of the monarchy, just for once.

“So, what are the odds that our Grantaire will need yours or Joly’s attention after the competition?” Feuilly asked Combeferre more curious than actually preoccupied.

“None, really. They have hired professional doctors, but if the question was about the level of violence of this sport I fear that the answer will be very high.”

“I only hope Joly won’t faint.” Commented Feuilly then erupted in laughter when Joly yelled in protest next to him.

In that moment, a voice, overcoming the excited buzz of the crowd, announced the arrival of the contestants and everyone sat in silence just to burst into cheers and screams when the announcer started to list the names. Les amis got up and started clapping when Grantaire’s name was announced, and they were so close to the ring that Enjolras saw the young man rolling his eyes with a fond smile which made him cheer louder even though he thought it was kind of a silly thing to do.

Grantaire wasn’t in the first couple of fights so they relaxed and tried to understand the rules of the sport. The first to get the hang of it were Combeferre and Louise who then started trying to explain what was happening to the rest of them. Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Musichetta had picked a favourite between the two strangers, mostly because he seemed the most inexperienced, and were cheering him on. All around them the crowd was yelling, and chattering, and buzzing and Enjolras found himself starting to get involved in the match and react to what was happening in the ring.

And then was Grantaire’s turn.

They all screamed at the same time when he arrived in the ring, and Musichetta even threw him one of her ribbons which he caught mid-air with a flourish and tied to his wrist. Bahorel whistled, Courfeyrac screamed even louder while Louise shook her head disapproving of the whole exchange. But then the match started and for how much their friends could be distracting, all of Enjolras’ attention focused on the artist: the way he moved so gracefully and effortlessly, the way the muscles on his back moved under the light shirt that was quickly starting to stick to the man’s body under the warm may sun, his eyes glinting in concentration.

Enjolras was enraptured. He knew Combeferre had noticed but he couldn’t help staring at the man, at his wrist turning without effort the stick over his head, at the curve of his neck while he bent to duck a hit, at his powerful thighs in the moment he spun on himself to land the stick between his opponent’s shoulder blades.

“Enjolras, is everything all right?” Inquired Feuilly worriedly. “Your face is quite red.”

“Yes, I’m… I’m all right. It’s just the sun you know,” when Enjolras answered, his voice was hoarse. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Combeferre smirking and felt his face burning still more.

It wasn’t as if he had never noticed Grantaire’s gracefulness and ability, he had seen him dancing more than once in the past and then, as in that moment, he had admired the cynic’s skills, but watching him fencing was awakening a different feeling, something that Enjolras was afraid to identify, even in his own mind, and which was pooling in his stomach hot like mulled wine.

He imagined running his hands along Grantaire’s arms, between his shoulder blades, feeling the muscles on his abdomen and his legs, the texture of his beard and of his hair sweat-soaked after the exertion.

He took a short breath and rose from his seat.

“I need some fresh air,” he announced to his friends. “There are too many people here.”

That said, he came down from the tribune feeling the piercing eyes of Combeferre on his back.

He found a shaded place under a tree, far from the ring and the buzzing of the crowd and put his face in his hands. He discovered tears were forming in his eyes and he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

He had been a fool to think he could take a day off from the cause. He could let his friends take one, of course. There was no sense wearing them out before the right moment, and they deserved some happiness, knowing how much they were expected to sacrifice, but he couldn’t allow himself that. He needed to be an example. His mind, his heart and his soul were for Patria, and Patria alone. He couldn’t afford anyone becoming a distraction, Grantaire more than anyone else. And those feelings were surely a mistake, something provoked by the relaxation he had permitted himself, but they had to stop. The leader of a revolution couldn’t lust after pretty girls or handsome boys, especially not after boys, that would have raised more than some protest and it wasn’t the time for that battle, not yet.

Moreover, Grantaire couldn’t even bear to touch him so it wasn’t like there was any possibility of something happening between them, which was good, Enjolras told himself. He truly wanted Grantaire to start considering him a friend and maybe, one day, he would convince him to believe in their ideals. Having certain thoughts about him surely couldn’t have helped the situation anyhow.

Enjolras shook his head trying to clear it, dried his eyes with the back of his hand and took a long breath before returning towards the tribunes.

The moment he approached the ring, Grantaire had tripped his opponent, and their friends had stood up and were screaming and clapping like a bunch of children at a parade. The cynic turned towards them and gave a dramatic bow, eliciting some laughs from the spectators.

Enjolras made it through the rest of the competition without any other incidents. He clapped with all his energy for Grantaire and with polite enthusiasm for the other contestants. He smiled and he cheered but he was more tense and guarded than that morning and he knew Combeferre and Courfeyrac had noticed.

“Is everything all right Enjolras?” Asked Courfeyrac during one of the matches not involving their friend.

“Of course,” he lied while glaring at the ground, incapable of looking his oldest friend in the eyes but also lacking the words for explaining what was happening in his mind.

He also wasn’t sure Courfeyrac would had been able to understand. His friend was a true revolutionary, devoted to the cause as much as him, but he believed in Freedom and Justice as much as he believed in Love and he was probably going to convince Enjolras to act on his feelings. But there were no feelings to act upon, he reminded himself hastily, and so there was nothing to tell to Courfeyrac. There were no lies involved. Finally regaining his composure, he lifted his head to meet his friends’ eyes.

“Everything’s fine, it’s just that it gets a little dull when Grantaire is not in the ring. I don’t really care for the others,” he added and Courfeyrac nodded but still exchanged a worried look with Combeferre which Enjolras didn’t miss.

He truly had the best friends, but sometimes he wished they were a little less observant.

At last the competition ended.

Enjolras remained behind when everyone assaulted Grantaire at the entrance of the competitor’s tent.

“You were great!” Exclaimed Joly practically knocking him over with his excitement.

“I placed third,” said Grantaire shrugging with a dismissive tone.

“You hadn’t practiced in months! None of your opponents would have had any chance if you had,” commented Bahorel with a boisterous laugh. Grantaire waved his hand in the air.

“The way you tripped your first opponent? That was amazing, R!” Said Musichetta happily.

“I don’t know, it wasn’t like a lot of people thought it was worth paying attention,” the artist’s eyes flickered for just one moment in Enjolras direction and, if the young leader hadn’t been looking closely, he would probably have missed it.

Grantaire thought that he didn’t consider his performance worth watching, he realized. He hadn’t seen him at the tribune at the end of his first match and thought he just went away because he didn’t care. He couldn’t be more wrong. His inappropriate fantasies shouldn’t have been the reason for his friend’s unhappiness, especially if the friend was Grantaire.

“Yeah, it was amazing, R. I had to take some fresh air, but I wouldn’t have missed it for anything in the world,” he quickly said. Grantaire’s eyes gleamed in the sunlight.

“I live to please,” he said grinning, but Enjolras could tell he was happy and something in his stomach twisted knowing that it was him who made him feel that way.

“R, you were incredible and I’d love to celebrate with you, but I have to go home or my mother will have my head,” said Louise miserably.

“I’ll walk with you, I have to meet with Irma and I think the boys should have fun on their own,” offered Musichetta just before she kissed Joly and Bossuet on the cheeks.

“I’ll come with you, your neighbourhood isn’t one of the nicest, Musichetta,” said Enjolras with conviction hoping that neither Combeferre or Courfeyrac had noticed his nervousness or, more realistically, decided not to question him on his behaviour.

He just needed to go back to his studies and stop thinking about Grantaire for a while and everything would go back to normal, shameful thoughts included.

“Are you sure, Enjolras? You should come with us and celebrate, Chetta won’t be alone anyway if she has to meet with Irma Boissy,” asked Jehan. It was clear his friend was hoping he would change his mind and Enjolras hated to disappoint his friends, but his focus on revolution was more important.

“I need to go home anyway, there are matters that I need to attend to,” he explained with a neutral expression.

The young poet tried to protest again but Grantaire interrupted him.

“Let Apollo go, he wasted enough of his precious time with us instead of his mistress,” he said with a grin which promised nothing good.

“And who would she be?” Asked Combeferre amused, much to Enjolras dislike: he feared Grantaire was going to talk about his alleged secret relationship with Louise and that was really not the time or place for such conversations. Knowing her, Louise would probably have made a scene that would have ruined all of his friends’ fun.

“Well, France, of course,” the cynic answered instead, eliciting a laugh from the group of friends and a sigh of relief from Enjolras who masked it by rolling his eyes.

“Are you ladies ready to go?” He asked the two young women instead of replying.

“We are,” answered Musichetta still smiling. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

They started walking toward the exit of the park in silence until Louise acknowledged a shady and elegant figure leaning against the short wall who responded at the gesture with a brief nod.

“Who was that?” Asked Enjolras inquisitively looking back at the man who could have rivaled Bahorel when it came to the quality and fashionable nature of his clothing, but wore the smile of a lion waiting for its prey.

“An old acquittance but he’s probably waiting for Jehan, he has been trying to win our poet’s favour for quite some time,” answered the young woman lightly.

“Does Jehan know about this man’s interest?” Asked Enjolras surprised. Prouvaire’s suitors were known for not staying around for too long. They either were satisfied in their quest and then sent away or kindly refused at once.

“He does,” replied Louise with a smirk and Enjolras thought it was better not trying to understand.

“So that was the infamous Montparnasse? I don’t like his expression,” commented Musichetta thoughtfully.

“Not a lot of people do, but Jehan is not a lot of people,” retorted Louise and ended that conversation. Musichetta had never had the habit of staying silent for too long and soon enough she was vexing the other woman trying to coax the information out of her which she hadn’t been able to steal from Marius that morning.

“I already told you I don’t know who she is,” protested an exasperated Louise.

“But you know her name,” pressed her friend clutching at her arm with a playful smile.

“Why are you so sure?”

Enjolras had to bite back a smile. He knew his friend suffering: he and Louise preferred staying out of their friends’ gossips and love stories. Musichetta, on the other hand loved meddling in her friends’ affairs.

“You know everything! People tell you things all the time,” protested Chetta.

“Drunkards and boasting soldiers tell me their secrets, but Marius is neither of those things.”

“All right! Bahorel told me you knew!” Conceded Musichetta at last, her voice nearing a desperate tone.

“Bahorel really needs to learn when to shut up,” muttered Louison under her breath.

“Why are you and Courfeyrac so fixated on discovering Marius’s new love? I really don’t understand,” asked Enjolras trying to save the poor waitress from her friend’s interrogation.

“Because neither of us know anything about her and we asked everyone we know! And I’ll let you know that covers a great part of Paris, and still we don’t know anything about Marius’s mysterious girl, how’s this even possible?” Lamented Musichetta in a plaintive tone.

“I think it has become more of a reason of honour or something like that at this point,” commented Louison to Enjolras conspiratorially.

“Of course it is! Grantaire jokes she’s a ghost Marius found in a graveyard and I’m starting to wonder if he’s right.”

Louise snorted.

“He probably said that happened to him once and described the event in vivid colours,"she shook her head disapprovingly. “There’s a reason Marius is keeping it secret and you should respect that,” she seemed thoughtful for a moment before adding, “sometimes love needs to be hidden.”

“Talking of Grantaire…" said Musichetta halting in front of the Musain. "Well I think this is our stop, right Louise? I told Irma I would meet her here.”

“I’ll set a table for you then. Bye, Enjolras, don’t get in any trouble all alone,” Louison saluted before entering the café.

“I’ll try,” the young man called after her. “Goodbye, Musichetta, I hope to see you soon. You should start to come to our meetings again.”

“You know Louise’s father doesn’t want women in your room,” she replayed coyly.

“Only his daughter, I know, still, we miss you.”

“I doubt it. The revolution is no place for women.”

“Combeferre would disagree with you and so would I,” retorted Enjolras seriously making Musichetta smile at him in amusement.

“You’re a good man Enjolras and to think that the first time I came to the Musain I came here to smack you on the head.”

The leader laughed at the words, incapable of taking any offense because of her light tone.

“Oh yes? And why may I ask?”

“That’s a story for another time,” she answered with a delighted smile.

“Like Grantaire’s hidden love?”

At those words the woman blanked and her face became serious and severe.

“What do you know about it?” She asked narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“Nothing! But while you were talking about Marius, you phrased it as if Grantaire also had some relationship to hide… I just… I hope he is happy, that’s all.”

Musichetta remained silent for long seconds, always looking at him as if to search for some trick or trap and when she finally talked she sounded tired and a little bit sad.

“The problem with R is that he’s always fighting the hardest to keep himself from being happy and takes all the roads which will lead him to a life of misery. His love life is one of those.”

“I’m sorry to hear this. Grantaire deserves more than a life of misery.”

Musichetta smiled softly.

“I know, but, Enjolras, and I’m going to tell you this only once: give R pity, or even some semblance of sympathy, and he’ll run away. Let him be. He’s the only one who can save himself from his own mind.”

“I promise, Chetta.”

“Thanks, dear. Now go have some fun with your books and pamphlets.”

Enjolras laughed again and watched her disappear into the café before walking to his own lodgings.

On the way to his apartment he thought about what Musichetta had told him about Grantaire and imagined the man fighting, like he had that morning, but this time against rays of light trying to touch him. And before he could stop himself the rays of light had become his own hands trying to touch the man and Grantaire wasn’t trying to stop him, instead was welcoming his touches, his caresses, and…

Enjolras realized he had stopped, eyes closed, in the middle of the busy street.

He shook his head trying to regain control and some lucidity: those were base, unwanted and foolish thoughts that needed to disappear from his head once and for all.

Grantaire didn’t deserve that and he couldn’t let himself be distracted by something so useless. There were better ways to occupy his time, he told himself while thinking about the mass of work that still needed to be done before the next meeting.

By the time he arrived on the threshold of his apartment, all thoughts of Grantaire were forgotten.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Always thanks to my incredible beta lawrofsakaar. I hope you'll like the third chapter (towards the end there'll be kind of sexual scene, nothing graphic but if you're uncofortable you can skip it.)

3.

It had been a productive night and a crowded one too, people had come and gone but mostly had remained and listened to what they had to say.

Now though his lieutenants were starting to display the signs of a day of hard work: Feuilly was starting to doze off on Bahorel’s shoulder while, on the table next to theirs, Jehan was writing something that clearly wasn’t the meeting’s notes. Louise had stopped for a long time finding excuses to come to the backroom and she was simply leaning against the poet’s table, but even she was starting to lose her attention more often and Courfeyrac, near him, had been fidgeting with his hands for a couple of minutes. It was time to end the meeting. He wrapped up his speech and gave the reins to Combeferre who understood immediately his intentions and concluded in a couple of sentences.

Some people applauded. Others went to him or some of the other amis to ask for more information, and a few went to the main room to drink and have some fun. Soon the only people in the backroom were les amis.

Louise stretched her arms over her head and was starting to go in the other room when Bossuet called her.

“Louise, bring us a couple of bottles of red wine, please, we need to celebrate.”

“What is it that you need to celebrate?” Asked the young woman suspicious.

“How well the meeting went, of course! I’ve never seen so many people and so interested,” answered Bossuet delighted waving his arms around in the air and nearly punching Joly in the face.

“One of the pottery factories just out of the city closed the other day, that’s why so many people were interested in our little reunion,” commented Grantaire absent-mindedly while holding a bottle up to the light to determine the amount of wine left.

“Do you want more wine or not?” Asked Joly in a tone that he probably considered whispered.

“I’ll bring you more wine as long as you pay for it," Louise reassured them. "This doesn’t mean I approve of the amount that you consume.”

“We only had two or three bottles until now," protested Grantaire. "And I’m pretty sure Bahorel drank from my cup while I was distracted.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” exclaimed the man in question with faux outrage.

“All right, all right, I’ll bring you another bottle, just stop behaving like little children,” said Louise moving towards the door.

“Make it two!” Called Bossuet after her.

“Make it three!” Corrected Grantaire, but Louise was already out of the door.

“I was thinking the other day,” announced Combeferre to Enjolras and Courfeyrac while Grantaire and Bahorel started discussing the missing wine.

“There’s hardly a moment when you stop thinking, Combeferre,” commented Courfeyrac who was slouched on his chair, one arm on the back of Enjolras’ chair and the other stretched over the table.

“Well I was thinking about a very specific thing: I believe it is time for us to change the location of our meetings.”

“Why? Do you think this place is no longer safe?” Asked Enjolras immediately worried. He was sure that if something suspicious had happened Louise would have said something. She was the best to spot possible spies and she knew the majority of the patrons of the café very well.

“No, the Musain is probably one of the safest places we have found yet, but it doesn’t provide for all our needs anymore.”

“Combeferre, it’s late at night and we’ve been at this all day, can you please stop talk in riddles?” Asked Courfeyrac tiredly passing a hand over his face.

“I mean that we need a place where we can invite women too. How many times have we lamented that we miss Musichetta’s opinions but we don’t do anything about it? I was talking with Joly after class the other day and he said that she would love to come but she doesn’t want to put us on Louise’s father bad side.”

“You’re right. We always talk about the situation of women in this corrupted society without any insights from our oppressed sisters. It’ll be difficult to make some men accept them or even convince them to participate but I think that Musichetta and Louise will be a good start,” said Enjolras thoughtfully taking his chin in one hand.

“And maybe we will actually treat Louise as if she is one of the Société,” said Courfeyrac reclining again in his chair.

“Louise is part of the Société, Courfeyrac, what are you talking about?” Asked Enjolras affronted.

“I know theoretically she is, but watch how we treat her: we’ll always consider her the waitress of the Musain first and then one of us. And don’t get me wrong, I’m the first to do that but this doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t stop. Her parents already try to convince her that her life should revolve around this place.”

“One more reason to change the location of our meetings once and for all,” commented Combeferre.

“All right, we’ll put it to votes at the next meeting but I doubt some of us will disagree,” said Enjolras. “We should start searching for a new location. Do you have anything in mind?”

“I think you should ask Grantaire, he knows the most about where to find what in the city,” answered Combeferre and Enjolras had to fight back a protest.

It was a given that he should be the one to talk to Grantaire about the new location, he was the leader, he had been the one who went with Bahorel to see the Musain at the time and when the Société hadn’t still existed, the meetings were held in his own lodgings. So, it was just natural that he was going to ask Grantaire information for a new place. He just didn’t want to. Since the day of the fencing match, he had tried to keep some distance from the cynic. He didn’t want to put him in an uncomfortable situation so staying away had seemed the best solution. Not that Grantaire had noticed anyway, thought Enjolras bitterly.

He looked where Grantaire, who by then had stopped arguing with Bahorel, was recounting some romantic adventures of his to an enraptured public composed of Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and Louise while Feuilly snored softly with his head on the table. He felt a knot in his stomach. If it was because he knew that Grantaire would have stopped talking if he joined them or because the girl described by the artist was his complete opposite he couldn’t tell. Anyway, the prospect of going to talk to the cynic wasn’t very appealing.

“I’ll talk to him, but now doesn’t seem the moment,” he said fighting with the lump in his throat.

What was he going to do when faced with the national guard if he wasn’t capable of talking to a man he found attractive without having a panic attack, he asked himself taking a long breath.

“Very well. I think I’ll retire to my rooms. It is late and I have an early lecture tomorrow,” announced Combeferre rising from his seat.

“I’ll walk with you,” offered Courfeyrac immediately rising in turn. The medical student smiled at his friend and after a swift goodbye to Enjolras and the others, they left arm in arm.

He had suspected for a while that those two were hiding something and they were becoming less careful every passing day. Last night Enjolras had heard Courfeyrac walk out of Combeferre’s apartment well after one in the morning. He was happy for his friends as long as they were happy, he just would have preferred if they had been paying more attention, not everyone in Paris was as accepting as the rest of their friends. He reminded himself to talk with them the next day about that and started packing his things.

Without Combeferre and Courfeyrac distracting him, he couldn’t help but listen to Grantaire’s story even if he’d rather have been listening to the retelling of Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign.

“So, well, at this point there are only us in the alley, a fact that I’m very aware of, but, because I’m a gentleman,” Joly snorted but Grantaire ignored him. “I don’t say anything and then she turns towards me and says…”

“It isn’t true you know.”

Jehan’s words startled Enjolras and made him lose the end of the line, which was probably for the better. He wasn’t aware the poet was still in the room, he was quite sure that he had seen him slipping out from the backdoor at the end of Combeferre’s speech. He had a red rose in his hands which he was twirling absent-mindedly while watching Grantaire talk.

“What is not true?” Asked Enjolras, confused and still a bit surprised to see the poet.

“Grantaire’s story. It’s all invented. Louise said he passed all night at the Corinthe drinking, playing dominos, and losing money.”

Louise had the frankly frightening ability to always know where people were. She was never wrong. It was quite useful for sending messages but a little annoying if someone needed a little privacy. Jehan said it was the proof she was in part a witch.

“Why are you telling me this? It isn’t the first time Grantaire makes up some romantic adventure, he just likes that kind of attention.”

“I just thought you’d like to know, that’s all,” answered the poet with a little smirk and Enjolras began to wonder if he really was that obvious. Maybe starting to avoid the cynic without any apparent reason had been telling enough.

“Has your thief paid you a visit?” He inquired nodding towards the flower and trying to stir the conversation away from Grantaire.

Jehan sighed.

“I doubt he’d ever paid anything in his life, but yes, Montparnasse has been here.”

“He must be special if you still keep him around. I’ve never had the time to learn one of your lovers’ name before,” said Enjolras with a knowing smile before noticing his friend’s expression and immediately letting it fall. Jehan looked melancholic and he was removing the rose’s leaves with nervous movements.

“He’s not my lover. Not that he isn’t trying to be, but I… I can’t. And it seems I can’t send him away either. I don’t know what I want, probably I’m just waiting for him to get tired of waiting and go away.”

“Oh Jehan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to upset you in any way. If you need anything…”

He really wanted to be able to do something for Jehan, but feelings had never been his forte. He’d always felt quite inadequate in moments like that one. Courfeyrac was the empathic friend, not him.

“It’s all right Enjolras, I’ll be fine. It’s all right to think about your own feelings before deciding what to do. The important part is to actually think about them and not to bury them and forget about them like they never existed, am I right?”

Enjolras could feel his cheeks becoming red at Jehan’s words. He lowered his eyes and tried to find an answer, but Jehan beat him.

“No one else suspects anything if this is what bothers you. I’m just very observant. I believe that Combeferre and Courfeyrac are onto something though.”

“There is nothing to be onto,” protested Enjolras without raising his eyes.

“Enjolras...”

“I’m serious, Jehan. I have no time for sentimental matters and little games of hide-and-seek. There are…”

“More important matters?” Finished Jehan with an amused expression.

“Exactly.”

“Enjolras, there won’t always be a revolution to plan. Sooner or later, hopefully sooner, you’ll have to put all that focus and dedication into something else. Maybe someone else,” said Jehan suggestively.

“There’s always a reason to fight,” retorted Enjolras, eyes glinting with their usual passionate flame.

Grantaire could call him naïve and idealistic all the times he wanted, but he knew that the future that he so often painted during his speeches wasn’t going to be achieved in one night nor even in one lifetime. He had devoted all of his living breaths to taking his people a little closer to that bright future and he was doing it without remorse or regret.

What was personal happiness in the face of France’s happiness?

“You’re too hard on yourself, my dear. Would you consider me or Joly less faithful to the cause because of our relationships?”

“Of course not. But I’m neither you nor Joly.”

Jehan fixed him with a hard stare.

“You’re going to hurt yourself, Enjolras, believe me. Hearts need nourishment as much as brains and bodies do.”

“My heart is perfectly fine, Prouvaire.”

Jehan fixed his gaze on him for some seconds then smiled at him warmly and glanced towards their group of friends still gathered around Grantaire.

“I’ll take you all dancing, after our revolution. It’ll be interesting to discover how it feels to dance in a free world,” he said in a distant tone.

“I hope it’ll feel a little less embarrassing than when you drag me in this oppressed world,” commented Enjolras with half a laugh, relieved at the change of topic.

“We’ll see, my dear. Now let me see if I can convince Bahorel to help me get Feuilly safe to his rooms. Heaven knows how fussy he can be when he’s so tired. Goodnight, Enjolras.”

“Goodnight, Prouvaire.”

Then, he added in a more lowered tone: “Thank you for the advice.”

It didn’t take long for Jehan to convince Bahorel. Feuilly tried to protest, claiming he could go home on his own but when his eyes closed while he was walking, nearly making him fall head-first into a table, he was persuaded to accept the help from his friends.

“Would the two of you, my dearest friends, be interested in some decent alcohol out of this hovel?” Grantaire asked Joly and Bossuet, gaining himself a hit on the face with Louise’s rag.

“We actually promised Musichetta we’ll be home early tonight, well earlier than usual,” answered Joly apologetically.

“Yeah, we should go if we want to avoid our love’s rage,” added Bossuet rising from his seat and helping Joly, who was already a little unsure on his legs, do the same.

The duo bade goodnight to the other three and disappeared into the dark street.

Enjolras tensed the moment the two of them exited the room. Only Louise kept him from being alone in a room with Grantaire. He hurried to find an excuse to go away without raising any suspicion, but Louise beat him.

“Oh dear, it’s so late!” She exclaimed with a yawn. “I should have closed the café an hour ago. Enjolras, Grantaire, can you please tidy the room a bit before going? I still have to clean all the main room.”

“Of course, Louise,” answered Grantaire.

“We’ll be glad to help,” added Enjolras feeling the lump in his throat coming back.

“Thank you, my friends, I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said with a little curtsy, an act in which she still slipped sometimes around them when she was really tired.

And then there were only him and Grantaire in the room.

The artist rose from his seat and started rearranging the chairs around the table. Enjolras cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I needed to talk to you about something, in fact,” he said hoping to sound normal.

“Well, I’m mesmerized. It is not often that a god lowers himself to talk to mere mortals like myself,” said Grantaire in a hard tone, dragging a chair with a little more force than necessary.

“I already told you not compare me to gods or kings, it is not what I want to be for my friends.”

Grantaire snorted.

“Friends you say?”

Enjolras couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stay alone with a man from whom he wanted so many and unthinkable things and who so clearly hated him. He had never regretted in all his life his passionate nature. Only Grantaire made him wish he could be more subdued in his beliefs.

“I say friends and I mean it, I hope this is the same for you.”

“You must have a strange concept of friendship, Apollo. You don’t talk to me, you dismiss everything I say during meetings, you avoid me when we’re out with our friends. You can’t even stand staying in the same room with me alone!”

At that point, Grantaire had stopped moving chairs and was facing Enjolras with a hard expression on his face. Enjolras inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

So, he cared. Grantaire had noticed his distance of the last month, and he’d cared so much he had been upset because of it.

Well, thinking of it, that wasn’t a great thing.

“I have to apologize," he nearly whispered. "I didn’t realize my behavior would affect you this way.”

Grantaire laughed bitterly but said nothing.

When Enjolras started thinking they were going to remain silent for the rest of the time it was going to take them to tidy the room, Grantaire spoke again.

“You said you needed to talk to me.”

“Yes, me, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac want to propose to change the place of our meetings. We’d like one where we’ll be allowed to invite women too.”

“And I’m the one who knows more places in the city, right?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll ask around. I’ll be careful, don’t worry. I’ll try not to fail miserably this time.”

“R, if you’re talking about the barriers du Maine…” Started Enjolras carefully. He knew he made a mistake losing his temper as he did that time, he was truly embarrassed for that and he had tried to apologize more than once, but it had never seemed the right moment.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Apollo. I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” the other interrupted him and Enjolras stopped immediately, he didn’t want to ruin the truce that Grantaire seemed to have granted him.

They went on rearranging the room in silence. Sometimes Enjolras stole glances at Grantaire and the way he moved chairs and table without effort, but the artist wasn’t never looking.

“Courfeyrac told me you sold another painting,” he said when they finished. There was a part of him that didn’t want to part ways just yet, not in such a sour mood. He wanted to make Grantaire smile, just one time, and then he would have been ready to go home.

“I did,” confirmed the cynic with a guarded expression.

“I’d love to see some of your works, I’ve never had the chance.”

“You’d have hated it,” answered Grantaire with a huff.

“I disagree.”

“You would, believe me. You must be used to finer things than my tentative sketches.”

“I don’t understand why you always debase yourself so much when talking about things you’re clearly good at like art and fencing while you always bragging about nonexistent ladies and faux romantic encounters,” said Enjolras in a frustrated tone.

He didn’t want to fight, he really didn’t, but there were some traits of Grantaire’s personality that really troubled him and he couldn’t help but point them out, as he had always done with everything he found unjust.

“I’d rather been remembered as a great lover than a mediocre artist.”

“You’re not mediocre.”

“You don’t know that.”

Enjolras passed his hand through his hair in frustration.

“Half the things you say don’t make sense to me.”

“I’m not surprised you don’t understand the appeal of the pleasure of the flesh.”

They were coming nearer each other with every word, the discussion becoming little by little more heated. It had been typical of them, before Enjolras had started to avoid the artist, that way of debating every topic, Enjolras always too passionate, Grantaire always too cynical. They would always end up almost screaming with an inch of space between their faces. Enjolras remembered the frustration, that was a given with Grantaire, but he hadn’t anticipated he would miss it.

“If you’re going to liken me to some of your Greek gods again, Grantaire, I swear…”

“Greek gods felt lust as much as every mortal. No, I should probably say that you’re an Angel sent from the sky to remind humanity of its humility.”

“Grantaire...”

“But I know the true reason is just that you’re a better man than me.”

Enjolras laughed.

“You don’t know that,” he repeated the artist’s words with a smirk, on his face the satisfaction of someone knowing they have said something smart.

And Grantaire smiled.

Oh, how beautiful he was when he smiled, his face would light up, his eyes would glint like little flames and his brow would fly high like he was surprised at his own good mood. There was still something off about his expression, a hint of sadness, but Enjolras was too lost in the other man’s eyes to worry about it.

Then something truly terrible happened.

Grantaire fell to his knees. They had been so close that Enjolras could feel his warm breath through the fabric of his trousers. It was heavenly and it was hell: he tried to step away, but Grantaire’s strong hand on his hips kept him in place. From that angle, the artist’s eyes seemed filled with stars. Enjolras felt like his bones were melting.

“Always so cold, Angel. I wonder how it might feel to be able to warm you,” Grantaire said in a low and husky voice while his hands travelled from Enjolras’ hips down to his upper thighs and then back up.

“Grantaire, you’re drunk,” noted the leader in a strangled tone.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even try to act like that didn’t affect him. He was powerless in the cynic’s hands.

“I’m always drunk,” retorted Grantaire with a smirk. “Come on, Angel, tell me: have you ever dreamt to silence me like this.”

At those words, Enjolras froze.

All the lust and the warmth he had been feeling evaporated in the space of a breath. Grantaire knew, he knew about his shameful thoughts and he was mocking him for it. Worse, he was offering himself like it was nothing, something one could laugh at. What was one more fuck for the cynic among those he had already had? Or claimed to had had, at least.

Meanwhile, Grantaire hadn’t stopped: his hands had travelled to the front of the leader’s trousers and they were pulling at the fastenings with purpose. He was talking too, an endless stream of words which Enjolras had difficulty following.

“Have you ever dreamt of putting my mouth to better use? With my lips around your cock.”

He was practically speaking into Enjolras’ hipbone.

In that moment Enjolras recovered his senses. He gripped Grantaire’s wrists and removed them from his crotch with force. He glanced again at the artist’s face and saw him clearly trying not to laugh. He felt sick. He turned on his heels and nearly ran towards the door, but Grantaire was an athlete, he was fast and agile, he stood up in one fluid movement and grasped Enjolras’ arm.

“Apollo, stop. I’m sorry. I just wanted to prove to you who the better man was and I’m drunk and in a foolish mood, so this came to my mind," he explained in a sheepish tone passing a hand through his hair. “But I guess your reaction proved my point: if our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t have tried to run, believe me.”

Enjolras felt his expression hardening like marble and when he talked his voice was cold and distant, so different from the turmoil of emotions he felt inside.

“Grantaire, if our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t have needed to be drunk,” he said. He pulled his arm free and went out in the Parisian night.

He went straight to his building, but he didn’t stop in front of his door.

Combeferre answered after only two knocks. Courfeyrac was sitting at the table of the main room, clearly visible behind the medical student’s shoulders. They were sharing a bottle of wine.

“I’m sorry,” said Enjolras before throwing himself between his best friends’ arms and starting to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I late? Yes, I am. Sorry, but I've been caught up in reharsals all week and I hadn't touched my computer untill today. So this is the last chapter. As Always, thanks to my Amazing beta lawrofsakaar. I hope you'll enjoy it.

+1

Enjolras had been told that one would see his own life pass in front of his eyes.

But that wasn’t true. Enjolras wasn’t seeing all of his life, just some very important moments.

_His mother was trying to teach him to play the piano but he couldn’t stay still long enough to memorize the movements. His father was on the armchair near the window and was laughing at the attempts of his wife. “It’s all right, boy. Some people are meant for other things.” He had said to him after one particularly bad note, with a reassuring smile._

He thought about his parents, far away from Paris. Far away from any wind of revolution blowing in the capital. He knew his mother was going to cry, maybe cursing his father for letting him read all those books about freedom and justice and a bright new future. He hoped his father wouldn’t feel guilty.

He wondered if they were going to remember that same evening of many years ago and that piano lesson.

The soldiers were positioned in front of him, they seemed unsure like they had forgotten the reason they had followed him there. If they had forgotten, he was going to make them remember. He still had the French flag around his waist, he untied it and raised it in his hand.

_There was another boy in the carriage which was taking him to Paris. He was reading a massive book about political philosophy. Was it Plato or Rousseau? He could not remember._

_Courfeyrac had fallen asleep on his shoulder and Enjolras was trying to figure out a way to turn the page without waking him up._

_The other boy lifted his eyes from the pages and took off his glasses to polish them with the hem of his shirt._

_“_ _Is that Saint-Just?” He asked Enjolras barely hiding his surprise._

_E_ _nj_ _olras startled at the sudden question._

_“_ _Yes, it is. I found it incredibly enlightening,” he answered with all the seriousness he could muster._

_The boy smiled and extended his hand._

_“_ _My name’s Combeferre.”_

_“Enjolras. Oh and he is Courfeyrac, he was the one to gift me this book.”_

He thought of Combeferre and Courfeyrac who had died so far away from one another and hoped that they were together in the after-life, he already missed them too much. He thought that, in the end, he wouldn’t have wanted to live in a word without Combeferre’s dry sense of humor and Courfeyrac’s light, without the passion Combeferre put in debating every topic and Courfeyrac abilities to always know how to comfort someone.

The Captain of the guards had called his soldiers to order. They were pointing their arms against him, and the Captain offered him a blindfold to cover his eyes.

Enjolras scoffed in response. If the Captain thought to quiet his conscience with that offer, he couldn’t be more wrong.

No act of kindness was ever going to wash the blood from their hands. There was no ideal, no reason, no action that could wash away the blood of your brothers and sisters. Enjolras knew it, but he had nonetheless taken a gun in his hands and used it to kill. The revolution was more important than a clear conscience.

He refused the kindness of the Captain and offered his chest to the guards.

 _It was his first time talking in front of an audience if you didn’t count the small reunion of students at his own house. Courfeyrac said he was a natural but still he was nervous. Convincing the people to rise with them, to join in the fight, was so important for the cause, for actually change anything._ _Prouvaire put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “_

_You’ll be incredible Enjolras, as always," he said with a wide smile._

_He had been right._

He thought of Prouvaire and his cry of liberty.

He had wanted to take them to dance after the revolt and Enjolras had found himself looking forward to it, that was how incredible Jehan was, and now he was gone, no more poems no more songs, the world was going to be a much darker place without Jean Prouvaire in it.

He wondered if his thief was going to place a red rose on his grave.

“It seems to me I’m shooting at a flower,” one of the guards said, but Enjolras wasn’t listening.

_The crowd had doubled in the time he had finished his speech._

_People were nodding at his every word and screaming their accord, but with the passion of those supporting the cause came the hate of those who still couldn’t see the truth. A punch was thrown, others followed. That was the first time one of his speeches turned violent and fear for the safety of his friends filled his heart._

_An indolent law student with the uncanny ability to put himself in danger had been in the crowd that day. He saved Courfeyrac from some bad bruises and Enjolras from a broken nose. He presented himself as Bahorel._

He thought of Bahorel, the first to die, the most intrepid.

He had a lovely mistress. He couldn’t remember her name, but she would always smile even when Bahorel greeted her with a new bruise or a missing tooth. He hoped she would be able to smile thinking of her lover dying for what he believed in.

He was ready to die. He was ready to reach his friends. So why weren’t the guards shooting?

_The first time he entered the Musain, Enjolras had thought they weren’t going to stay there for long._

_The room they had been given was cramped and dusty, the owner wasn’t very happy about their presence, and their daughter, who Bahorel said was the reason why the man even accepted, seemed to hate every one of them._

_B_ _ut that night Louise introduced them to a fan maker, who was the best man Enjolras ever met in his life, and to a witty grisette with a silver tongue. And that grisette had dragged along a hypochondriac medical student and the unluckiest man in all of France and with them arrived a cynical artist fonder of his bottle than his own life._

_Enjolras could still remember the warmth he felt the first night they all remained at the Musain even after the meeting had ended, and he saw the Guide, the Centre, and the Poet blending with those new marvelous characters._

He thought of Feuilly and all the places he was never going to see.

He thought of Joly and Bossuet and the tears in Musichetta’s eyes. He wished some of their friends were still alive to relieve her pain.

Louise wasn’t going to be there to help her. She had married some soldier a couple of months prior and had moved to Marseille with him. It would be weeks before she would know what had happened. Enjolras thought about her too and wondered if she was going to erase her revolutionary ideals with her maiden name.

But Grantaire was alive.

Grantaire was going to dry Musichetta’s eyes, tell Louise why none of her old friends were going to show up at her first child’s baptism. Maybe he would even find Marius’ girl and explain to her why her love didn’t answer her last letter.

He was going to be crushed. He was probably going to blame himself too, maybe for not being able to convince them of the futility of their actions or maybe for not being there and helping them fight back. He was going to feel guilty because he went away and because he had thought that was going to be another failed revolution.

Enjolras became suddenly aware of the fact that that was exactly what their revolt was going to be in the eyes of history, and for the first time since he had to kill that young soldier he had to hold back tears.

But Grantaire was going to be alive.

He was going to paint and dance and fight again. He had never been a believer, he was not made for a revolution, but he still had so much to give to the world. He was going to make it a better place without spilling a drop of blood. Enjolras wished he would be able to tell him all of this, he wished he would be able to tell him not to cry, not to blame himself or feel guilty and to find the strength within himself to go on.

He thought about all of that in the short time the soldiers needed to take aim.

Then he heard it.

“Long live the Republic! I’m one of them! Long live the republic.”

He could have recognized that voice in a crowd of thousands.

It was Grantaire.

And surely there he was, making his way between the soldiers who watched him pass like he was a hallucination or a specter.

He really seemed a ghost: white as a sheet, sparkling dark eyes, hair dusty with the lime fallen from the walls. He wasn’t sure on his legs. He was drunk, thought Enjolras shocked. He had been there all of that time sleeping off the alcohol. But why he didn’t run away when he woke up? Why had he stayed? Why did he come there?

“Take both of us with one shot,” he told the soldiers in a low but steady voice, then he turned towards Enjolras and asked, in a more unsure voice: “Do you permit it?”

_Grantaire was talking animatedly moving his hands and arms in the air like in some kind of restless and uncoordinated dance. It wasn’t so late in the afternoon for him to be already drunk and the brightness in his eyes must have been caused only by his passion. Judging by the look of utter fascination on Louise’s face and Marius’ look of mild confusion, he was talking about mythology or some obscure historical fact._

_Enjolras was dying to approach them and listen, but he knew that the moment Grantaire noticed him he would have made some remarks about how Enjolras was cold as marble or something like that and completely ruin the moment. But as he got up to leave, the artist’s eyes met his and Grantaire smiled at him, a wide and bright smile, only for him, that warmed Enjolras from the tip of his toes to his head._

Enjolras smiled a wide and bright smile, only for him and took Grantaire’s hand just before he heard the shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this is the end. I really enjoyed writing this and I want to say thank you to all of you for reading this and leaving kudos and comments, thank so much! I'm probably going to write again for this universe so stay tuned if you liked it. I'm lenezdansleruisseau on Tumblr if you want to say hi


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